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On the road from Baerlon was the first time he dreamed about the Wisdom.
Everything about the Two Rivers had been exactly as he expected. Hard working people who had never had an interest in traveling further than Taren Ferry. Provincial understandings of things a Sheinaran child would have known as fact. A stubborn belief that if they simply ignored the outside world it would never have an interest in them.
Never mind that Two Rivers tabac was widely prized in Cairhien as much as in Tomen Head. And even if al’Thor’s heron-marked blade indicated at least someone had spent some time on the outside, they were as closed-minded and small-thinking as he had expected. The group traveling with them had done little to change his mind on the topic.
Oh, they could ride, when needed, and didn’t complain about the rough circumstances nearly as much as he had anticipated. But it was hard not to think of them as simple country bumpkins when Baerlon left them speechless. Short of looming over them constantly it was impossible to tame their wagging tongues. Between the four youngsters there was perhaps the sense of a single adult.
The Wisdom had been a surprise. He had noted her, of course, as he and Moiraine explored Emond’s Field. He’d noted everything, learning every corner and tool, memorizing every face, as a matter of course. It would have been impossible to overlook the Wisdom, at first seeming just a child before delivering a blistering rebuke to Moiraine that caught them both off guard.
Beyond that, thought, he had paid her no mind. Moiraine had endured sharper words before, and the small woman, despite the spark Moiraine felt clearly, was no threat. Farmers with pitchforks and smiths with hammers were the ones who required a closer eye. Even after the Trolloc attack, when Lan had to admit her skills as a healer were admirable, there were more pressing matters to attend to. Besides, while he could recognize she probably had a pretty face, it was always scrunched up in a scowl. Nothing worth additional scrutiny.
And yet she had turned up when he had not expected her, claiming to have tracked him. That she knew neither fear nor common sense was plain both in her plan to set off on her own as well as her insistence in squaring off in direct opposition to an Aes Sedai. Whitecloaks and mobs may be willing to threaten a woman of the White Tower, but he could not recall the last time a solo village woman had managed more than a frown of discontent in Moiraine’s direction.
It was refreshing, really, for someone to so flatly refuse to yield to Moiraine. Frustrating too, of course, as the irritation from Moiraine’s end of the bond continued to remind him. But her refusal to back down, that she forced Moiraine to work for every kernel of knowledge she could eke out of her, was quite the change of pace from the usual dynamic on the road. The Two Rivers had apparently never heard so much as a whisper of Daes Dae’mar, so while Moiraine ground her teeth Lan had to appreciate the frank honesty of the Wisdom’s obstinance. At least you always knew where she stood.
Still, it had been a surprise to dream about her. There wasn’t much sleep to be had after leaving Baerlon in a rush, but he had permitted Moiraine to take the watch eventually. Even a Warder needs some sleep now and then.
The dream was…soft was perhaps the best he could remember it on waking. More an impression of a woman under the Wisdom’s hard exterior. Steel and silk, and warm spices. It had been some time since he had dreamed of a woman, and certainly not something he had anticipated now. Sex was the very last thing he needed to be thinking about.
He woke with a start and thought for a moment he must still be dreaming as he could hear her voice still. A moment to clear his head and he realized the whispers were a hushed conversation between the Wisdom and Moiraine. Moiraine’s side glance as he adjusted his cloak and sword around him told him it had been a long two hours since he had yielded the watch to her.
“You should get some sleep, Wisdom,” he rasped. “We ride hard at dawn.”
She sniffed and pressed a packet into Moiraine’s hand. “Tell her that. If she’s supposed to keep us all safe she needs her rest too.”
Moiraine eyed the packed as the Wisdom moved off, frustration and amusement mixed in the bond. “She’s nothing if not persistent,” she mused quietly.
“And not wrong, you do need sleep. What did she give you?” He pulled the packet from Moiraine’s hand and sniffed the contents. “Greenwort?”
Moiraine sighed and shrugged. “To settle an upset stomach.” Lan raised an eyebrow. He had not noted any such symptom. “I’m sure it will be useful eventually,” she admitted. At his critical look she shook her head. “A small concession, Gaidin. She is part of the Pattern, no need to make this harder than it already is.”
She turned to curl up and get some sleep. Lan considered disposing of the herbs, but after a glance at Moiraine he carefully folded the packet and tucked it into his belt.
His gaze swept the camp, three lumps of the boys near the snoring mound of the gleeman, with Egwene slightly separated. But the Wisdom, who should have been sleeping in her own space near Egwene, was quietly making her way through the group. Lan smothered an urge to reproach her and watched instead as she checked each of the Emond Fielders, stroking foreheads and smoothing blankets.
She glanced up at Lan as he passed a few paces away, frowning as she moved to her own spot. She wrapped herself in her cloak and rolled so she faced away from him. He was surprised at the pang of loss he felt. It made no sense.
It must have just been an after-effect of a particularly strong dream, he decided. It would fade with the dawn, as dreams always did. He began his silent circle of the perimeter of their small camp, alert for the rustle of branches or a snapped twig.
A stray memory of a gentle touch flittered across his thoughts, and he quickly pushed it aside. It was only a dream, and dreams had no place in Lan’s life. He settled in to keep watch for a few more hours until the sun would start to warm the sky and they could begin again.
******
After Shadar Logoth he had not expected to sleep, much less dream. The hard travel must have been worse than he thought, to have dozed off after he and Moiraine escaped the city. At least Moiraine had gotten a little rest in the time they’d bought there.
He dreamed of the Wisdom dancing. It had been easy to watch her in Baerlon, dancing to the gleeman’s songs, as Moiraine had taken to the floor herself. He had wondered, briefly, if she joined the dancers in part to give him the opportunity to do so. She had not missed his curiosity being peaked by the young woman, although she knew he would never choose to pursue anything while they were working. But surely there was no harm in looking?
Although in Baerlon he had not moved from where he watched in the corners, eyes always on the crowd in the room, in the dream he danced with her. In the dream he held her hand and she smiled at him as she spun and laughed.
When he woke abruptly, just as the sun was warming the sky, Moiraine was prodding a small flame to heat some tea. She smiled a little when she glanced in his direction and he quickly got up to check the horses, busying himself to avoid conversation. She warded his dreams against outside influence as a matter of course and would not pry into the contents, but his feelings were the most unguarded while he was asleep, as were hers. He was sure she could guess the subject of his dream, if not the exact details. She still seemed to find it both amusing and exasperating that the Wisdom had caught his fancy, regardless of whether he wanted it to or not.
Well, she was not here, and dreams were simply dreams. He was not so much a fool as to spend time dwelling on tricks of the mind. He scouted the area as a matter of duty, but also to shake his head of the passing fancy. Keeping an eye out for Trollocs had a way of focusing the mind on the matters at hand.
But when the Wisdom did appear, having approached them so stealthily that he had not noticed, his insides lurched almost unpleasantly. Fate had always played funny tricks on him.
He called her by her name for the first time that day, almost tripping over his own tongue as the unusual but simple sounds came out. She glared at him, perhaps mistaking his unexpected clumsiness for an unwelcome familiarity.
He retraced her steps while Moiraine spoke with her further and found his initial impression of her skills was correct. Her father had taught her well. Hiding a horse in the woods was no easy task, but if the animal had not snorted as he drew near he likely would not have found it as quickly. Surprising even for a village Wisdom, perhaps, but this woman was clearly quite intelligent and capable.
On his return she tried to hide her tears as she faced her own worst fears, of being exactly who she was and yet was so afraid to be. The moment of vulnerability from the fierce young woman was as surprising as it was endearing. He had a sudden urge to wrap her in her cloak and set her on her horse back home. Instead he handed her the reins and encouraged her to keep up.
That night he did not dream of her, but instead of a living Malkier.
******
There were many nights on the Caemlyn Road after Whitebridge. The stench of the Myddraal faded quickly as they rode, but the road stretched on and on. Nynaeve was no happier to remain in Moiraine’s company, that much was clear, but her attempts to pick fights had slowed and eventually nearly ceased.
Moiraine and Lan often traveled in companionable silence, neither needing to fill the space with unnecessary chatter. Twenty years side by side meant they had already shared the stories of their past, and they were so in tune with the mission that neither needed much lengthy discussion of means and ways.
Nynaeve rode pensively with them, avoiding Moiraine, with only an occasional quiet question directed to him. He urged her more than once to return to her home and was not surprised when she ignored him every time. She was not one to give up easily and, like Moiraine, would never turn back until all her charges were back in the fold.
This quieter Wisdom was perhaps more of a puzzle than the one spitting in anger had been. She kept pace with them, although Lan would frequently glance back to ensure she did not fall behind. She gathered wood for fires, skinned and prepared whatever he caught (although Moiraine preferred when he did the actual cooking), and generally made herself useful when they stopped for the night. They avoided towns and villages, and he never once heard her complain about sleeping rough or getting wet when it rained.
She tended to her hair sometimes in the mornings when the sky was still gray and before Moiraine had woken to start the tea. He tried not to watch as her fingers slid through the strands to undo her braid before combing the waves that fell below her waist. She always made quick work of the process before swiftly twisting it back into the long braid she would grip like a lifeline when agitated.
Sometimes when they stopped she would slip a little distance away to keep her pouches of herbs stocked. Once he asked her about an unusual moss she had scraped from a rock. She eyed him suspiciously before explaining it could be used in a poultice to draw the fever out of a boil.
“You are always prepared for any eventuality,” he commented as she folded it in paper and deposited it in her belt pouch.
She sniffed. “I wouldn’t be much use as a Wisdom if I was not.” She paused. “I supposed you and I have that in common. A Warder must always be prepared too.”
He grunted in agreement and pulled a folded cloth from his pocket. He offered it to her, and she looked in puzzlement as she accepted it and peered inside. A small smile touched her lips. “Flatwort,” she murmured and lifted a leaf to smell it. “You are familiar with it?”
“We use it in the Borderlands sometimes, though we call it featherleaf. Good for the men after a hard day’s march. I found some earlier today, and thought you might have a use for it.”
She looked for a moment like she wanted to say more, but glanced at Moiraine reading by the fire and pursed her lips in a grimace. She tucked the leaves in her pouch and turned to arrange her bedroll instead. “Thank you,” he caught as a whisper.
That night he dreamed about undoing her braid. The next morning he made sure his head was turned while she tended to her hair.
******
He did not sleep the night after Perrin and Egwene’s rescue from the Whitecloaks.
He could feel Moiraine’s relief at having reclaimed on of the boys, and at still having two powerful channelers to deliver to the Tower. These were not minor victories. But there were additional horses to tend to, additional mouths to feed, a larger trail to hide. More work to do.
Despite keeping his hands busy with circling the camp and maintaining a sharp eye for trouble his thoughts wandered. Always back to the same thing. No matter how hard he tried to turn back to the pressing matters at hand.
Nynaeve slipping off through the woods toward the Whitecloak camp, silently and efficiently. His certainty that she would succeed, and satisfaction when the stampede of horses that covered his extraction of the young Emond Fielders confirmed his expectations.
But he also had to consider the moment of indecision when he wanted to, with every fiber of his being, disobey Moiraine. For twenty years he had argued with her, and on occasion even succeeded in changing her mind, but when she made a final decision he had never acted in defiance of her commands. He had given his word, would give his life a thousand times over rather than break it. And yet, for this small woman who had forced her way into their lives, against the preference of all involved, he was torn in a way he’d never been before.
She had crashed back into the clearing, completely unharmed and exuberant in her victory. And he hadn’t broken his vows and Moiraine was successful, and…
He had caught her by the arm, wanting to confirm what his eyes were telling him, that she was real and whole. It was the most physical contact he’d had with her in their month of travel. She had looked up at him with dark eyes that shone in moon light, from a face he could finally admit he found beautiful. Her arm beneath his hand was warm, and although he must have only held her there for a second, it could have just as easily been hours before he released her.
He was surprised by the intensity of his relief at her return. He knew how to make hard decisions, and Moiraine’s weighing of the situation was the right one. Nynaeve was no fainting maiden in distress, as she had proved tonight. But he wasn’t sure he could have left her behind.
Nynaeve was sleeping near the other Emond Fielders. There was no fire tonight, only their cloaks to keep them warm. Moiraine was drifting to sleep just a little apart from them, content in her victory. He circled a little further away from camp. It was not right for him to dwell like this. He could not make the same error again, could not falter, not when Moiraine and the Dragon Reborn needed him.
And it would not be fair to Nynaeve to give any hint of where his thoughts lay. Whether she reciprocated or not, and he would be a fool to think she would, he was in no position to offer her anything of substance. While he would take her to bed if she was willing, he had quickly learned the Wisdom held fast to the social expectations of her community, and he could certainly not meet those. Better to never reveal himself.
It would be easier to shut off these thoughts without dreams muddling his feelings. Tonight he would keep watch on the camp. And he would not dwell longer than was necessary on the Wisdom.
At least, not much longer.
******
The night of Nynaeve’s declaration was a sleepless one.
It had not been unexpected. He could do nothing about his own feelings, try as he might, except hope they were unrequited. Her glances, and the way her cheeks flushed when he looked at her, had dashed those hopes. Turning her down was the last thing he wanted to do, but it needed to be done. He hoped it would make a clean break. She was young. She could not be too disappointed for too long, he was sure.
He meant every word he’d said to her, from her beauty to her fierceness to his regret that she would choose another, but he would not marry her just to widow her. He did not know the number of his days remaining but Tarmon Gai’don was coming, and he had been dedicated to die fighting the Shadow from birth. She was level-headed, intelligent, resourceful. She would come to understand it was impossible, would seek better.
Walking away from her, leaving tears running down her face, felt wrong in every sense of the word. His heart ached with every step. That it belonged to her was as impossible to deny as it was to be allowed. Nynaeve deserved so much better.
He needed to clear his head. Turning to the horse lines he looked for a task to distract himself among the sleeping animals. He felt rather than saw Moiraine approach the line, her graceful movements a swishing of silk.
“It’s so unfair, isn’t it?” Moiraine murmured.
Lan turned slightly to where she stood by her mare, stroking her muzzle. “Pardon?”
“Oh” she said, as if she had only just noticed he was there. “I was talking to Aldeib. Agelmar’s stable hands spoil her terribly, and I have no treats. It must be terribly disappointing.”
“Hmm,” he grunted in response, turning to check the lines on Perrin’s horse.
“And what about Mandarb?” Moiraine asked suddenly, her face suggesting only innocence, but with a probing intensity to the bond. “How do you think he will handle the disappointment?”
Lan glanced down the line to where Mandarb was sleeping, seemingly without a care about the status of treats. “I expect he enjoyed it while it lasted. But he knows now it’s time to work.”
“Hmm,” Moiraine said thoughtfully, turning back to Aldeib. “A good way to look at it.”
“Moiraine—” Lan considered his friend for a moment. She never pressed for details about his personal liaisons. He reflected on the bond and could feel her concern beneath the veil of serenity.
“Yes?” Piercing eyes seemed to bore through him. It was not as if she didn’t already know everything anyway. Would it make a difference if he spoke it aloud?”
“Good night, Moiraine,” he finally replied instead. He turned to move away.
“I’m sorry, Lan,” she called after him, softly. He stopped in his tracks but did not turn around. “For whatever it’s worth. I am sorry.”
He dropped his head for a moment. He could feel the warmth and love she felt for him, in addition to her concern. He closed his eyes against his loss. “Good night,” he repeated. As he resumed his walk he heard a small sigh from Moiraine.
He began circling the camp. He would not need to sleep that night, for which he was grateful. Dreams were pleasant while sleeping, but in the light of day it was time to turn to the work at hand. Entering the Blight was fraught with perils the Two Rivers people could not be taught quickly enough and it was on him to keep them intact, to get them through to wherever Moiraine could find the Eye of the World. Whatever Nynaeve meant to him—whatever she could have meant to him under different circumstances—did not matter now.
He hoped Nynaeve could find a pleasant dream and her tears would be dried in the morning. For him, the morning could not come soon enough.